Without meaning to, I already found myself mentally drafting a reply. I’d show some restraint, though, and wait until I got back from pet-sitting Boomer later.
What would he do if I didn’t reply? Would he write to me again, or would he be glad to be rid of me?
My stomach twisted itself into knots at the thought. The mere idea felt wrong somehow, and I refused to examine this reaction too closely.
Shoving the letter into the back pocket of my jeans, I began cleaning up the trail of destruction I’d left in my wake.
I should be careful … but I knew I wouldn’t be.
March 19th
Hi Sasha,
“Medium is optimistic” felt personal, but I’ll allow it.
I accept the provisional arrangement and I’m assuming it comes with no warranties and a very limited return policy.
Your analysis of Greg was uncomfortably accurate, which I resent on principle. I prefer my bad decisions to feel mysterious.
Also, I take mild offense at the implication of inconsistency. I’m extremely consistent, just not in a particularly productive way.
Since we’re apparently exchanging formative disaster stories:
I am technically responsible for a carnival losing power for forty-seven minutes. There was a funnel cake truck, an extension cord, and a situation I thought was “probably fine.”
It was not fine.
The Ferris wheel stopped mid-rotation, and I had to apologize to a man dressed as a pickle. In my defense, no one explicitly told me not to plug industrial fryers into decorative outlets.
Your shed story is … concerning, in an impressive way. I feel like we’re playing the same game with very different budgets and consequences.
I should probably be alarmed, but I'm just intrigued for some reason. Maybe it's because you don’t seem interested in pretending to be safe?
I’m going to stop here before I say something else you can weaponize against me later.
Hoping you’ll write again. I probably will.
— Addy
Chapter 6
Sasha
Therewerethesoundsof a quiet argument nearby — it sounded like the Italians were having one of their little tiffs — but otherwise, the decommissioned office I had claimed was silent.
I came here for some fucking peace and quiet, so no one else dared to step foot in here.
The knock on the door didn’t startle me and I took my sweet time to finish reading the last paragraph of Adelaide’s letter. After carefully folding it, I finally looked up.
“Come in.”
Ferguson stuck his head through the gap and gave me a sharp nod. “Markov. Gonna need you to have a word with Paco and his boys when you get a chance. Something’s up. Don’t know what but it ain’t good.”
I raised an eyebrow, pretending to consider his request, and picked up my fork. The food on the tray in front ofme was warm and looked better than the usual slop they served here.
Of course I knew what they were up to, just as I knew about everything else going on in this shithole. But I wasn’t about to do anything about it.
Eventually, I nodded at Ferguson to show I’d given his words serious consideration. “I’ll keep an eye out.”